


you don't get an alibi

by jacyevans



Series: Angels and Animals [1]
Category: Supernatural, Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, F/M, Gen, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, poor sam just can't catch a break
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 04:26:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2568149
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jacyevans/pseuds/jacyevans
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time, everyone has the best intentions.</p><p><i>"So, where is he, then? Your</i> brother<i>," she drawls, turning the word into an innuendo rather than a simple statement of fact.</i></p><p> <i>There's no way for her to know that she would strike a chord, that such a simple question would make every muscle in Sam's body tense to the point of pain. "I don't know."</i></p><p>  <i>“How do you not know?”</i></p><p>  <i>“It’s complicated.” His feet pull away from the sticky floor with a sucking sound as he shifts around on the stool.</i></p><p>  <i>Erica snorts. “Isn’t it always?”</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	you don't get an alibi

_(This time, everyone has the best intentions.)_

*

“What’ll it be, hot stuff?”

Sam sighs, rubbing his face with his hands. One week since he left Dean on the side of that road in Colorado. A week of hitchhiking from town to town, drifting with no destination in mind. Garber, Oklahoma seemed as good a place as any to settle down for a while, and the rain solidified his decision as he took shelter from the downpour and settled at the bar with his bags at his feet. 

Sam glances up, then does a double take. The girl – woman – has curly, blonde hair, brown eyes, her left hand on her cocked hip, and a coy smile plastered on her face. She reminds him so much of Jess that he _aches._

She raises an eyebrow, lips quirking up into a smirk. “They’re called breasts.”

“I’m not –" Sam splutters, "I mean, I wasn’t—“ Her eyebrow rises higher and higher with every stuttered protest, smirk pulling into a full-on grin.

He sighs, laughing a little inside, but he doesn't take his eyes off of her. “Whiskey. Neat.” She nods, turns towards the bottles behind the bar. When she turns to find Sam still staring, she slams down his glass, lips turned down in mild annoyance.

“I’m sorry," Sam says, quick to make sure she doesn't get the wrong idea. "You just – you remind me of someone.”

“That’s what they all say.” She pushes the glass towards him. “That’ll be five bucks. Want me to open a tab?”

Sam has a grand total of two dollars and eighteen cents in his jacket pocket and three fake credit cards in his wallet. He digs around in his wallet, handing over the first card he lays his hands on, reaches for the newspaper someone left on the bar while she runs the tab.

Two hours later, Sam hasn't gotten past the first page; the same woman is still bartending, and she slides a beer across the counter before the one at his elbow is even empty. He shoots her a nod of thanks.

She leans back against the register, crossing her legs at the ankles. “So, that girl you say I remind you of. She the one you’re drinkin’ to forget?” She gestures towards the bottle of beer. “That’s your fifth drink in under two hours.”

“It’s not a woman." Sam turns the page and pretends to read in the futile hope that it will dissuade anymore questions.

She looks him up and down. ““Really? Wouldn’t have pegged you for gay.”

“No." Sam picks up his head, and she grins, knowing she's caught his attention despite his attempts to ignore her for the remainder of the night. "I mean, yes, it’s a guy but – he’s my brother.”

“Ew.” Her nose wrinkles. 

Sam rolls his eyes; the assumption that he and Dean are lovers is old hat by now. “Not like that.”

"So, where is he, then? Your _brother_ ," she drawls, turning the word into an innuendo rather than a simple statement of fact.

There's no way for her to know that she would strike a chord, that such a simple question would make every muscle in Sam's body tense to the point of pain. "I don't know."

“How do you not know?”

“It’s complicated.” His feet pull away from the sticky floor with a sucking sound as he shifts around on the stool.

Erica snorts. “Isn’t it always?” She moves to take another order, and Sam catches the flyer taped to the wall behind the register, wrinkled and ripping away at two of the corners.

"Hey," he says when she gets a free moment, "Are you guys still hiring?"

*

Sam starts work the next evening. He walks to the next town over and hustles a couple of games of pool, enough to get a room at the local motel and pay up front in cash.

By the time he arrives at nine, there are already several patrons sitting at the bar, couples and small groups scattered around the tables on the floor. He chuckles when he sees Erica behind the bar.

"Hey, hot stuff," she says, lobbing an apron at Sam's head. He catches it one handed. She boosts herself onto the counter while he ties the apron strings around his waist. "So, looks like we're going to be working together. You going to tell me your name, or should I just call you Hot Stuff for the duration of our time together?"

"You show me mine and I'll show me yours." 

"Wow," Erica says, deadpan, "Seriously? Your come-ons need work."

Sam laughs; Dean would agree. So would Jess, she was on the receiving end of enough of them. He takes a breath and swallows down the bile in his mouth.

“My name’s Erica, by the way," she says, when he offers nothing more.

He says the first name that comes to mind. “Keith.”

"That's not what your credit card said."

Sam smirks, but doesn't rise to the bait.

Erica laughs and jumps down from the counter. "Oh, Keith. This is the beginning of a _beautiful_ friendship."

*

Sam learns quickly. He always has; outside of a week, he knows the regulars’ names, the way they take their drinks and what to say to get the biggest tips. Erica winks and calls him an overachiever, while her boyfriend, Boyd, rolls his eyes from his customary spot at the end of the bar.

Her eyes light up when she spies the group of Good Ol’ Boys standing around the pool table.

“Watch and learn, boys,” she says, slaps her apron against Sam’s chest, and saunters across the room.

Erica's a natural shark, playing the role of the ditzy blonde with ease. She twirls her hair around her finger, shoots the men around the table shy smiles. They're putty in her hands, buying the act hook, line, and sinker. 

Sam shakes his head and talks Boyd into a game of darts. Boyd nails every shot, pulls the darts from the board, and hands them to Sam with a smirk.

“Impressive.” Sam tosses three darts into the center of the board in quick succession. 

Boyd huffs a laugh. His grin widens as Erica collects her winnings and glides across the floor with a swing in her hips. She brandishes the wad of cash in her hand with a little twirl and winds herself around Boyd’s waist.

"Hey, gorgeous," she says; she draws the eyes of every other male in the bar in the process, Boyd looking completely nonplussed. He levels a raised eyebrow in Erica's direction.

"What? Girl's gotta eat. You think I get those tips with my rapier wit?"

Boyd snorts, shakes his head. Erica plants a wet kiss on his mouth, pulling away with a loud _smack._

Sam rolls his eyes. “You’re something else, you know that?”

"Oh, I’m something, all right," she purrs, plucks the remaining dart out of Sam's hand, and throws it over her shoulder. Bulls-eye.

*

That night, Sam dreams of Jess, her hip warm against his side, hair fanned out against his pillow. He wakes up to the sound of his phone ringing, Bobby on the other end of the line. He spouts off quotes from _Revelations_ and a list of demonic omens in Sam’s immediate area a mile long.

Sam drags his hand through his hair when Bobby finally stops to take a breath. “Get someone else on this.”

“Okay, let me think of the best hunter I know who might be in the immediate vicinity - oh wait, that’d be you.”

“I’m out, Bobby. I’m sorry.” He hangs up the phone and turns off the ringer, tossing it to the nightstand when the display immediately lights up.

He buys the local paper from three separate towns, sits behind the bar and circles every single possible apocalyptic omen in red. By the time he’s finished, he’s dogeared several pages, paragraphs upon paragraphs marked by a giant red star.

Erica leans her chin on his shoulder. A breath of laughter escapes her mouth when her eyes light on the headline at the top of the pile - _PLAGUES OF LOCUSTS AND RAINS OF BLOOD - IS THIS THE END OF THE WORLD?_

She tilts her head to the side so he can see her face in his peripheral vision, eyes bright with amusement. “You don’t really believe in this bullshit, do you?”

Sam chuckles. He tosses all three newspapers into the trash bin under the register. Guilt twists his stomach into tight knots. “No.” 

“Liar.” She reaches over his head for a bottle of vodka, startling him into dropping the can of beer in his hand when she slaps his ass.

“Sorry,” she says, batting her eyelashes.

“Liar,” Sam says, and she throws back her head and laughs.

*

His dreams continue, each one a little more real than the last. Jess lays her head on his pillow and talks to him about the end of the world; when he wakes, his skin burns where she laid her hand on his hip.

He’s on his way to work when catches sight of a couple of hunters idling at a gas station on the other side of town. He’s worked with Tim, Reggie, and Steve before; they’re reckless, dangerous, shoot first and ask questions later. They don’t care who gets caught in the crossfire, so long as the job gets done. Sam turns the corner, ducking into an empty doorway until they get back in their truck and takes the long way to work.

Bobby leaves him a voicemail, telling him they were the only ones who volunteered to come down and suss out the demon situation, and _you would know that if you picked up your damn phone once in a while. Idjit._

Sam’s heart climbs into his throat every time the bar door opens. He half expects Tim and his band of cronies to walk in, blow his cover in ten seconds flat.

"What's got your panties in a wad?" Erica asks when he looks up for the umpteenth time.

He slumps back against the counter, tapping his feet to the rhythm of the country song on the jukebox. “Just one of those days.”

She raises her eyebrow, face a riot of disbelief, but the response dies on her lips as the door opens again. Her face pales.

“Boyd,” she whispers, breath catching. Boyd tugs her out from behind the bar and into his side in an instant, looking equally wary.

A male, easily as tall as Sam, walks across the room, stopping directly in front of Erica and Boyd. Sam gets a good look at his face, blue eyes and curly, dirty-blonde hair that belie his age. Not for the first time, Sam wonders if Erica is really eighteen.

“There something I can help you with?” Sam asks, and the boy glares. Erica places a hand on Sam’s forearm.

She tugs Boyd over to the jukebox, knowing the other boy will follow. Sam has no idea how they can hold a conversation - the music is blaring, the volume on the TV in the corner cranked up to match.

Erica looks more and more upset the longer he speaks. She pulls further back into Boyd’s side when the stranger reaches out a hand to grasp her arm.

Sam makes a point of walking past them when he approaches one of the tables with an armful of beers, just in time for the boy to turn away with a huff.

"Isaac, wait --" Erica is saying, but he - Isaac - is already halfway to the door, shoving it open so hard, it slams against the outside wall.

Erica’s eyes are glassy with unshed tears. Boyd ruffles his fingers through her hair. 

Sam curbs his curiosity for all of ten seconds before he caves. “Who was that?”

“An old friend,” Erica says; she takes a deep breath to steady herself and gives him a watery smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I said don’t worry about it!” She shoves Sam away, disappearing into the kitchen. Boyd presses the heel of his hand to his eyes and sighs.

*

Sam dreams of Jess again that night, hand softly carding through his hair, voice gentle even as her rebukes tear him apart. 

“Sooner or later the past is going to catch up to you, like it always does. You know what happens then?” She cups his cheek in her hand. “People die. Baby, the people closest to you die.”

He wakes in the morning with a headache behind his eyes and an itch building under his skin, the need to get moving, do something, burned as deep into his bones as the demon blood running through his veins.

There’s no relief to be found at work. Erica’s been more tense than usual since her friend’s impromptu visit, liable to snap at the smallest provocation. Boyd sticks to her like glue, never more than a foot from her side.

They're closing up, Sam on his fifth beer of the night, when Tim and Reggie finally do walk through the door; they're haggard and angry and worse for wear, clothes spattered with dirt and blood. Reggie raves about how Steve is dead and it’s all Sam's fault, killed by a demon who spouted off his mouth about the Winchesters and the end of the world.

"Keith," Erica says, just before Reggie fires off a shot, straight into Erica's thigh. She goes down hard, and Sam shouts, throwing himself across one of the tables to get to her side.

She comes back up swinging, eyes glowing yellow and howling around the fangs in her mouth.

Werewolf. Erica is a _werewolf._

Sam doesn’t have time to marvel over how truly fucked up his life is because Tim is unloading his gun, swapping out the bullets for a clip he pulls from his inside jacket pocket. Sam slides across the table, tackling him to the floor, while Erica swipes at Reggie with her claws. Red lines bloom across his chest, from sternum to navel.

The gun skitters across the floor. Reggie ducks Erica's attempt to wrap her hand around his throat. He drops to the floor and picks up Tim's gun, firing at her left side. Erica screams.

This time, when she goes down, she doesn’t get up. 

"Wolfsbane bullets," Reggie says, panting as he waves the gun in front of Sam’s face. "Handy little suckers." He pulls a small vial from his pocket full of a dark red liquid. All of the breath rushes from Sam's lungs.

Reggie uncorks the vial, and Sam can smell the blood, even from ten feet away, can practically taste it in his mouth. "You’re going to drink this. Then, you and I are gonna take a trip down the highway so you can slaughter the sons of bitches that killed Steve."

Sam shakes his head. “No.”

"Don't--" Erica says; she blinks, but her eyes glow yellow, like she can't control it. 

“Well, if you don’t, I fire another bullet into your friend here," Reggie raises his hand, finger on the trigger, "and this time, I’ll aim for her head.”

Erica's eyes are wide and pleading. Sam grits his teeth and takes the vial with shaking fingers.

"That's it," Reggie says, "Nice and slow."

Sam catches sight of Boyd near the door just as he swallows the vial down; the blood tastes like power, lightning through his veins, brain already sparking with the hit.

He waits until Boyd storms inside, the glass of the door shattering, startling Tim, and spits the blood back in Reggie's face. Reggie screams, hands instinctively coming up to cover his eyes. Sam breaks an empty beer bottle over his head, knees him in the ribs, and slams his head into the edge of the pool table. Boyd has the other hunter at the neck, claws digging into Tim's windpipe.

Sam bends down and picks up Reggie's gun. Pressing the barrel to his forehead, Sam says, “Now, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to get back in your car and drive as far from Garber as possible. You’re going to do so quickly and quietly, because so help me, Reg, if you send anyone else out here, demons will be the least of your problems.”

Reggie rubs his hand against his bloody mouth as he stands. He spits at Sam's feet. 

“You picked the wrong side, Winchester," Tim says as Boyd tosses him out the door, shoving Reggie hard in the back when he follows too slowly.

Sam laughs darkly, fighting back the urge to lick his lips. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

He waits until he hears the screech of tires in the parking lot before he lowers the gun. Both Erica and Boyd stare at him, and what a macabre sight he must make, blood all over his mouth and dripping down his chin. He strips off his flannel so he can wipe his mouth, though he can still taste the blood on his tongue. He tosses the shirt to the side and takes a step towards Erica. 

Boyd growls. He steps in front of her, cutting her off from Sam's sight.

Sam holds up his hands. “I need to look at her side.”

“You don’t need to do anything. You’ve done enough.”

"Boyd," Erica gasps. She's panting, every breath a visible struggle. "The bullets -- we need --”

Boyd growls again, but he steps to the side, holding out his hand. “Put the gun on the table, then back away. Get any closer to her, and I’ll rip your throat out.”

Sam does as he asks; he takes a step backwards, hands still up, palms facing outwards.

Boyd helps Erica to her feet, slow and steady, wincing when she hisses out a pained breath. She tucks the gun into the back of her jeans and leans her weight on his shoulder as they walk backwards across the room. Her eyes never leave Sam. 

“You know,” Boyd says quietly as they near the door, “I really thought you were one of the good guys.”

Sam flinches, hands curling into fists so his nails bite into his palms. “So did I,” he whispers. 

The door swings shut, and then the bar is empty, far too quiet with them gone. He’s alone.

*

Sam spends hours in front of his laptop that night, searching for any sign of violent, unexplained deaths in the area - bodies with hearts missing, animal attacks. He doesn’t think he’s going to find anything, but there’s still that part of him, the one raised under John Winchester’s house rules, that needs to _know_ , see the proof in black and white.

He holds his breath as he tears through archived news articles until his eyes cross and a headache pulses behind his eyes, sending him tumbling into bed and into Jess’ waiting arms.

“I love you,” he tells her, and he presses a kiss to her palm. “But you’re wrong. There’s always hope.” 

Jess lays a hand on his shoulder. “No Sam,” she whispers, “There isn’t.”

The hand on his shoulder grows colder, holding more weight. Jess’ face fades away, turning to one he doesn’t recognize, face mottled with lesions and open sores. Sam stumbles backwards.

“Hey, Sam,” he says, grinning. “Thanks for the jailbreak.” 

Of course it was Lucifer and not Jess, the entire time. Of course Sam is Lucifer’s vessel. After all, who better to finish the apocalypse than the one who started it all twenty-six years ago, when a demon killed his mother and bled into his mouth.

Everything makes a sick sort of sense, and Sam gasps when he wakes up, jolting out of bed. He grips the edges of the mattress and tries to catch his breath. 

He packs his bags, blindly shoving away clothes and books, the remnants of the last two months spent living out of one place. He sits down on the bed and tugs out his phone, thumbing out Dean’s number. He stops short of hitting send, though, sinks down to the floor, and stares at the display. As if reading Dean’s name over and over again will give him all of the answers.

He doesn’t know how long he’s been sitting there when the door squeaks open, and Sam glances up, half expecting to see Lucifer in his newest incarnation, another demon, maybe Reggie and Tim come to finish him off. For a single, breathless moment, Sam holds onto the blind hope that Dean has tracked him down. He’ll walk in, take one long look at Sam, tell him he looks like shit and to stop moping around like a teenage girl, then drag him to his feet.

Instead, Erica leans against the doorway, arms folded over her chest. 

"Hey, hot stuff."

He flips his phone shut and leans his head back, eyeing the ceiling. If she's here to kill him, she might as well get on with it. Not like it will stick.

Sam can't muster up the energy to move, never mind fear for his life. He slumps back against the bed. "Thought you woulda left town by now.”

“We did. Got as far as the town line before I made Boyd turn back.”

“Why?”

Erica shrugs. “Morbid fascination.” She walks into the room slowly, keeping the door open wide at her back. She drags her fingers along the surface of the dresser. Her heels clack against the thin carpet.

“So you’re a hunter,” she says, spits out the words like they’re poison, like the wolfsbane Boyd leached out of her veins - something dirty and unmentionable in polite conversation.

Sam sighs. “I used to be.”

“Hunters don’t ever change their spots.”

"I think you mean leopards.”

She rolls her eyes. “Whatever. You don’t change, none of you do. Not in my experience.”

I tried to change, Sam thinks to himself. He ran halfway across the country in his quest, left his family behind. Fell in love with a girl and was convinced he was going to marry her, until his past caught up with him and effectively blew his pipe dream to pieces. He has no idea why he thought it would work this time, why distancing himself from Dean would somehow keep all of his demons from catching up with him. 

He should have known better.

Sam shrugs his shoulder. “Maybe not. Figured I’d try anyway.”

He tips his head forward; he might not go out with a fight, but hell if he’s going out a coward. Erica stares at him, searching, eyes roving over his face before settling on the pulse at his neck.

“I was injured. You had a gun full of wolfsbane bullets. You could have easily pulled the trigger and killed me and Boyd, but instead, you tried to save me.” She shakes her head, lips pulled down in her confusion. “You gave Boyd the gun and just... let us go. Why?”

“Would you have rather I tried to kill you?”

Erica’s eyes flash, a growl building in the back of her throat.

Sam has no reason to lie. “Just because you’re a werewolf doesn’t mean you deserve to die.”

“How do you know I haven’t secretly been ravaging the town?”

“Because I went back and checked the papers for any mysterious deaths and came up with squat,” he counters.

She laughs, a bitter sound, so different from the girl who threw her head back and called him a liar. “Wow. And here I thought we could trust each other.”

Sam raises an eyebrow. “Can we?”

Erica bites her lip. She sits beside him on the floor, slow and hesitant, keeping the open door in her direct line of sight. 

Sam listens to her breathe through the silence, to the car idling in the lot, the occasional door from a motel room on the same strip creaking open then shut again. 

She turns so she can face him, legs crossed. "That girl you said I remind you of. Who was she?”

He breathes in deep, exhales loud around the pain in his chest. “Her name was Jess. She was my girlfriend.”

“Was."

“She died. A long time ago.” Sam sighs and looks at Erica sitting beside him, watching him like he’s the world’s most frustrating puzzle to solve. "Look - I don't know what you're running from--”

“Who says I’m running from anything?” Erica snaps, but her eyes dart to the door, body poised and ready to flee. 

“Everyone is running from something. You’re what - seventeen?”

"Sixteen."

Sam groans, dropping his head into his hand. "Oh, God." That just made almost every interaction she’s ever had with him about a thousand times more awkward.

Erica chuckles, hands moving restlessly over her legs. "Don't worry. You're not the first guy fooled by this pretty face."

“My point is,” Sam says dryly, and Erica rolls her eyes, “you’re still young. And if you keep running now... you’re never going to stop."

"Sounds like you’re speakin' from experience." She eyes the packed duffel bag sitting on the mattress, throwing him a knowing look

Sam shoots her a wry smile from behind his bangs. He pushes to his feet and Erica follows, watching as he slings the bag over his shoulder. He moves slowly, giving her a chance to pull away as he cups her shoulder, leans down kisses her on the forehead. "Take care of yourself, Erica."

Erica darts forward, enveloping him in a hug. Sam stands there, startled for a long moment, before he’s able to wrap his arms around her shoulders, slow and careful. Like she's the one who could break easy.

"Yeah," she says softly, "You too." She kisses him on the cheek, eyes on his back as he walks from the room.

He's unsurprised to find Boyd standing outside the door, beside the idling car. They acknowledge each other with a nod.

Sam's halfway across the parking lot when Erica calls him back. "Keith." She waits until he turns around. "What's your name? Really."

Sam smiles. "It's Sam. Just Sam."

*

_(There is an empty space next to you in the backseat of the station wagon. Make it the shape of everything you need. Now say hello.)_

**Author's Note:**

> A few things I wanted to address, because I'm sure they will come up:
> 
> There is no alpha pack in this verse. Erica and Boyd get the hell out of dodge after Chris cuts them free and just keep running, hoping to find a pack that will take them in.
> 
> I know in canon, Tim and co. come down to visit Sam and ask him questions before the big reveal, but I couldn't fit that scene and the one with Isaac without the fic feeling weighed down. And I really, really wanted to keep the scene with Isaac. That and I figure as soon as Boyd and Erica got the slightest whiff of hunter, they would get the hell out of dodge.
> 
> My eternal gratitude to [riverchic1998](http://archiveofourown.org/users/riverchic1998) and [thatworldinverted](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thatworldinverted) for their advice and encouragement when they betaed this thing <3
> 
> Title, opening, and closing quote are from "You Are Jeff" by Richard Siken. 
> 
> Come hang out with me on [tumblr!](http://seaboundandaimless.tumblr.com/) I like new friends, and my ask box is always open.


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